


Night Ride

by startrekto221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Childhood Friends, First Kiss, Kidlock, M/M, Nerd Sherlock, Rugby Captain John, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4426778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekto221B/pseuds/startrekto221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is hopelessly infatuated with the boy next door. Until one night that changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Ride

Sherlock presses down hard when he writes the words, because this is a cheap pen, and it was runny when he started using it and overly dry now and the ink is more purple than blue but that has nothing to do with anything does it? His study on pens, more specifically paper chromatography, was a while ago but he distinctly remembers there being far more red in this model than most pens advertised as having blue ink usually have. The box he got them from was nicked from Mycroft’s old room, but Mycroft had never used them, Mycroft always used things he bought with his own money, so a gift, who would gift pens? Someone who knew that Mycroft was studious but not too close to him, pens were rather impersonal for a birthday present, colleague? No, any colleague of Mycroft would know this was a terrible pen, so not a colleague, family member then. One who wouldn’t know anything about quality pens, probably doesn’t do much office work, that ruled out most of mother’s side, his father’s uncle would gift an ink pen--he was too old--his father’s sisters. Aunt Helen and Aunt Ida. Both rarely ever visited, so they didn’t know him that well. Both were stay at home mothers. Aunt Helen had gifted Mycroft that horrendous red sweater, so her gift was taken care of. Ida then. Of course. Finishing through the deduction in the second it takes him is satisfying, but then he remembers he’s supposed to be writing and finishes his sentence as best he can with this utensil that dares call itself a pen. _There are some people out there who are not meant to be loved._ Sherlock takes the pencap he’s been chewing out of his mouth, recaps the pen, and puts it on his desk. It rests next to an open notebook on a nearly blank page, the pages turn because of the wind that blows through the half open window, and as Sherlock leans up to close the window he stops as he hears the noise from the street below.

 

The neighborhood boys are playing street cricket again. And as this is an occurrence of some regularity--if he recalls correctly it happens at least twice a week, with the exception of major holidays, and rugby season, at least three quarters of the boys play rugby--it really shouldn’t be cause for Sherlock to stop writing his essay for English class. But today John is playing, John only plays now around two out of every seven times Sherlock sees the boys playing, he’s gotten a new part time job as a cashier at the local Tesco, his evening shifts usually conflict, not to mention the considerable step up he’s done regarding coursework, Sherlock has observed over the last few months of school that John’s number of textbooks has doubled, according to hearsay he was also considering stepping down as rugby captain but was talked out of it, he’s clearly looking to get into a competitive program at Uni, from his course schedule it’s probably medicine, the anatomical electives are a dead giveaway. Sherlock looks down, enjoying his vantage point. The sun’s not quite setting now, and the sky is a delightful red-gold color. John is throwing. It’s not nearly as wondrous as when Sherlock sneaks by the rugby games to see him all sweaty and obviously muscular but it’s still quite something. His hair is just slightly long now, Sherlock likes it that way, it’s been exactly three weeks since he got a haircut. Sherlock has never really liked cricket, or any organized sport or organized anything most people like but he watches the conclusion of the game just because he knows it’ll get dark soon and on his way home John will walk right by Sherlock’s house and possibly wave to him as he goes. And in the face of this annoying essay about themes of love and Aunt Ida’s stupid pen, that wave might just make his night.

 

“Oi, Watson!” Marcus Avery shouts as they’re getting ready to go, “Freak was watching us!”

 

Oh no, major, major miscalculation. Sherlock sighs. It’s too late to move now. And to John’s credit he looks to both the right and the left--as if he’s unsure as to who Avery was referring to--though he’s known for years where Sherlock’s house is since they live right next door, and then shrugs. Sherlock wishes he could hear what was said, but John isn’t shouting. There’s a lump in his throat when John does turn to the left again, and then upwards to where he knows Sherlock’s bedroom window is, locking his gaze on Sherlock.

 

“Hey, Sherlock!” John waves from the street.

“Hey!” Sherlock shouts back sheepishly, finally closing his window and sitting back down in his chair, nervously chewing the pen cap again as his heart thumps quickly in his chest.

 

Just had to watch him, didn’t you Sherlock? He asks himself as he writes more. _Some people out there are meant for a grander purpose than to simply be coddled and cushioned and cared for. Love is a construct sought by people to create stability and meaning in their otherwise meaningless and chaotic lives. Made necessary only by the lack of other constructive work._ He thinks of when they were younger. When him and John explored the neighborhood creek together and Sherlock fell in and rode their bicycles together and Sherlock ended up being chased seven blocks by old and senile Miss Holdenburg’s equally old and senile pittbull. He remembers the time they tried to bake in John’s mother’s kitchen. The time they cut the hair off of all Harry Watson’s dolls. The time they snuck into a showing of a horror movie at the town center and squeezed each other’s hands so tightly they turned white. Camping trips out on the lawn. They used to be inseparable. Sherlock still has a picture he keeps buried under a mound of his chemistry things. A taped together picture that he ripped in a fit of childish jealousy that John had moved on and found other friends and left him behind because it was so unfair and then put together again when he decided that maybe it was for the best.

 

Growing up it seems, had changed everything, Sherlock thinks as he wonders if the sunset he’s watching is inspiring all this nostalgia. Sunsets always seem to have special significance to people that aren’t Sherlock. Even John might be watching it now, from a similar vantage point as their houses have roughly the same structure, having the same builder and having been built originally a year apart and John lives in the same bedroom among the three on the top floor as Sherlock does in his own house. But it’s unlikely. He’s probably having something more to eat now, John gets far hungrier than Sherlock does because of the fact that he goes outdoors into the Sun and expends calories while Sherlock stays inside and experiments and probably looks like some sort of thin, unattractive vampire in comparison to John’s sunkissed glory.

 

John had grown up cool. Not really his fault, Sherlock thinks in retrospect, perhaps he didn’t really want it but like leadership can sometimes be it was thrust upon him. Sherlock had grown up not. It was simple as that. It hadn’t made a difference at first. But then it had. John hung out with different people than he did. Mostly because Sherlock didn’t hang out with people at all. John had different skills than Sherlock did. Mostly because Sherlock’s one and only skill was being something of a genius. They had drifted apart. Which was okay. But also really not okay because this whole pining after the boy next door thing was just so opposite to everything else Sherlock believed in that it was quietly infuriating. It was so infuriating that he was tempted to write some really bad poetry about it, then convinced not to, lest Mycroft find it on his infrequent sojourns back home and make fun of him for it forever.

 

When they were little John had sometimes climbed up onto the roof and over to Sherlock’s window. Snuck in through it and spent the night just talking to him or playing cards. Just because he was bored or something or couldn’t sleep or just wanted to tell him things. It had been nice. Sherlock would give anything, he thinks quite irrationally, for John to come in through the window again and just talk to him. But that of course will never happen.

 

 _These people destined to be alone all their lives are not missing out on any precious facet of the human experience but rather enriching their own existence by being devoid of any true dependence, hence making them more likely candidates for unlocking their true potential._ He decides that’s enough for today and closes the book. He checks in on several of his experiments. Plays around an hour of violin. Sets his alarm for seven the next morning. And goes to bed.

 

At two am there’s a knock on his window. It’s John.

 

He walks groggily over to the window and opens it all the way. And John, with great difficulty, maneuvers himself through it and into Sherlock’s bedroom. John Watson is in his bedroom again for the first time in seven years. And Sherlock’s in his bee pajamas of all things. And it being dark and his powers of deduction being mildly compromised by his just-woke-up state he embarrassingly has no idea why John is here.

 

“I can explain,” John says quickly.

“You were just at a party, but you left, there was a minor altercation, presumably someone’s chasing you--Harry’s the only one home--so they’ll probably check your house first but in order for her to honestly say she has no idea where you are you came here.” Sherlock says, finally caught up.

“That was brilliant,” John says, momentarily forgetting his own situation.

“Child’s play,” Sherlock blushes at the praise and is thankful that it’s still pretty dark, “Though the illumination is limited I was able to see a beer stain on your shoulder yet your breath doesn’t smell of alcohol so someone else was drinking. You were probably the designated driver. There’s someone else’s blood on your fist, so you punched them so hard that they bled, probably a direct hit to the face--nose perhaps? Your parents pulled out and had brought out quite a bit of luggage to the trunk so I guessed they were going for a 2-3 day trip at the least. Harry’s home, I saw the lights turn off when you were gone for the party.”

“You haven’t changed a bit,” John laughs, “Still amazing.”

Sherlock just shakes his head, still caught in a little bit of awe that his rugby-captain-blonde- fantasy-god-of-all-lost-childhood-friend dream is actually talking to him.

“Sorry about this. Honestly.” John says.

“No, it’s fine.” Sherlock says quickly.

It’s a bit awkward after that. Sherlock can hear the crickets chirp. To break the silence John asks, “You still like bees?”

Sherlock looks down at his pajamas, “I do, yeah.” God why does he have to embarrass himself constantly in front of John goddamn perfect Watson?

John walks around the room, looking at things barely illuminated by the moonlight, “You still have all your chemistry stuff. Your skull there. When’d you take up the violin?”

“Few years ago.” Sherlock says quietly, his heart rate accelerating rapidly.

“I’d love to hear you play sometime.” John offers.

“I’d play for you anytime.” Sherlock says the first thing he can think of, and gulps, it’s a really bad idea to talk around John with no filter.

He’s avoided the awkward moment however as he gets up at the ruckus outside. Apparently Harry Watson has just rather loudly--with the use of a few choice swear words--thrown out the gang looking for John.

“That’s one thing I can always count on,” John smiles at him, “Harry being herself.”

“You’ll be going then?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah, I should. Then I’m guessing I should find some way to get my motorbike back. After the thing happened I sort of ran home. As they were chasing after me. Bit comical.” John sighs, “Oh it’s going to be a long night. And seeing as most of my friends currently hate me I don’t know how I can even…”

“I’ll come,” Sherlock says suddenly.

“What?”

“I’ll come with you.” Sherlock says, “Can’t be that hard. Sneaking out with a bike.”

“Okay,” John says, and he looks surprised, “I could use a lookout.”

Then he slips right back out of the window he came in from and Sherlock hears the sound as he slides a bit down the roof and then jumps out on the lawn below. He himself finds the getting out of the window part a fair bit easier--being thinner than John--but from the edge of the roof to the ground is quite a jump.

“Sherlock it’s not that far,” John says reassuringly, “You’ll be fine.”

“You really think so? I myself am not quite sure. My possible trajectory--”

“Sherlock it’s alright.” John smiles.

“Are you perfectly confident in that analysis?”

“Sherlock, here, just jump and I’ll catch you.”

Sherlock jumps, and instead of landing on his feet in the cool and ninja like manner he was attempting he lands precisely on John, who does catch him. His heart skips a beat as John puts him down with ease.

“Told you it wasn’t that far,” John says, laying a hand on his shoulder, “You alright? You look a bit pale.”

“It’s just the light.” Sherlock lies, reliving the moment John caught him over and over at light speed in his mind, “I’m fine.”

He then follows John as they walk out onto the street, “Where does he live?”

“I’ll show you. Just follow me.”

“Mind telling me what this fight was about?”

“He’s been saying things about me for a while. Jack Kirby. And I don’t care, really. I know he wants to be captain and thought he would be because I wanted to get serious about medicine soon. But then he went and said things about Harry, my ex girlfriend Mary, and other people, that I didn’t exactly appreciate. So I sort of lost my temper. And you know the rest.”

“Other people?”

“Yes.” John says curtly.

“Which other people?” Sherlock asks innocently.

“So you want to be a chemist?” John changes the subject.

“Yes, that’s what I’ll study but it’s not what I want to be.” Sherlock corrects.

“What do you want to be?”

“Consultive detective.”

“What’s that?” John asks.

“When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they’ll come to me.” Sherlock explains.

“I like it,” John says genuinely.

“Really? Think it could work?”

“Well you seem to know everything about anyone simply by looking at them. You’d make a great detective.”

“You’d make a great army medical doctor.”

“How do you know I--forget it…” John laughs.

“Ex-girlfriend Mary?”

“Yeah, we broke up a while ago.”

“Why was that?”

“You know everything. You don’t know that?”

“I’m not exactly in the in-crowd. You can only know so much off of observation alone. I know the who, what, when, where, and possibly even the how. It’s the why part that’s sometimes eludes me.”

“She had sex with Jack Kirby.” John says finally, after a rather long pause.

Sherlock lets out a low whistle, “That would do it then.”

“Mmmhmmm,” John concurs, “Left here.”

“Is this the house?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah it is, there’s almost no one sitting out front except for those three there. I don’t know how I’m going to distract them while I go up to the driveway and--”

“I’ll take care of it.” Sherlock says, suddenly confident.

“You’ll what?” John hisses.

“Just. You start the bike, back out around those other cars and pull up on the curb. I’ll distract them.”

“Okay.” John says, slightly awed, “As you wish.”

Sherlock goes up to the girl in green, reclining in the lawn chair, her head on the shoulder of the one who must be her boyfriend. Or shagbuddy. Sometimes Sherlock can’t really tell the difference. It’s probably an emotional attachment thing. Boyfriend has it. Shagbuddy doesn’t. Something like that.

“Hello.” he says, looking at the girl intensely.

“Is that...are you Sherlock Holmes?” the girl giggles, “Oh my god Matthew it’s freakboy. Were you invited to the party, Sherlock? Your John’s already gone, what a shame.”

“Course he wasn’t.” the boy says, “Hey isn’t that Watson on the bike. Hey! Hey somebody stop--”

Sherlock clamps a hand down on his mouth and speaks very quickly, “Listen. If you want the truth about your nose job coming out all you have to do is cry out.”

“And you,” he turns to the girl, “I really wouldn’t want your friend over here to know that you’re considering dumping him for the ever popular Mr. Kirby or that there exist at least three hook up texts on your from other guys who are also currently at this party.”

“You--” the girl sits up angrily.

“Laters,” Sherlock runs back to where John is revving the engine on the bike and sits behind him.

“What the hell did you tell them?” John smirks, “They looked like they could breathe fire.”

“I just made some choice deductions.” Sherlock wonders whether he should be holding on to John’s shoulders like he is.

“Oh, that was good.” John says, “They told me I shouldn’t come back to that place if I wanted to live and I came back and left right under their nose.”

“John.” Sherlock says nervously.

“What?”

“There are people in cars with their headlights on that are most likely following you.”

“Following us. Oh, god.” John sighs, increasing his speed, “Hold on to my waist. I’m going to try and lose them.”

Sherlock nods, “That would probably be a good idea. In your rearview mirrors they do look rather murderous.”

“They should be. I did punch their hero in front of at least forty people.” John rationalizes as he takes a sharp right.

“Take the next left and get onto the freeway.”

“The freeway. Are you mad?”

“Yes. Take the freeway and then we can exit into a remote place they don’t know and take advantage of their unfamiliarity and lose them. If we circle about here they know the place, you’ll eventually run out of gas.”

“Trouble is Sherlock, if we go to a remote place we don’t know then I won’t know those roads either.”

“I know all the roads. Just trust me.”

“Okay.” John takes the next left.

“Not to alarm you John,” Sherlock says as they’re going several kilometers past Sherlock’s motorbike comfort zone on the freeway, “But they’re gaining.”

“I’m already going way beyond the speed limit.”

“Just go ahead. Accelerate.” Sherlock squeezes John’s waist.

When they finally take the exit Sherlock’s curls are a mess, his hands are tightly clenched into John’s jacket and he’s not even concerned anymore that he’s spent half his night being chased by goons flashing their headlights in only his bee pajamas.

“Right here.” Sherlock says.

“Left.”

“Next two lefts.”

“When you see the petrol station take a U-turn.”

“Go into that neighborhood. There’s an exit that takes us back North.”

“Right.”

“Left.”

“Pull up by that motel. We lost them five minutes ago and there’s no chance of them coming by here.”

 

John parks his bike behind a large red van just in case and they go inside, resting in the lobby and catching their breath.

 

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” John admits, shaking his head.

“And you punched Jack Kirby in the face.” Sherlock says.

They both laugh, and suddenly John puts an arm around Sherlock, “I’ve missed you, Sherlock.”

 

His heart almost stops, “It’s been a while.”

“How do you know this area so well?”

“I memorized most local maps a while ago.”

“The way you could just tell me exactly where to go. Without skipping a beat. Fantastic.” John marvels at him.

“When I was talking to the girl, earlier. She told me you were already gone. Why would she tell me that?” Sherlock asks.

“Sherlock--”

“Please don’t insult me further by trying to spare my feelings.” Sherlock says rather coldly.

“It’s a little joke they have. They see that you come to the games coincidentally when I’m there. And we live right next to each other and they see you watching me play like today. They’re idiots okay? They just think you have a little crush on me is all. Doesn’t matter what they think though. What do they know?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock says softly, “What do they know?”

“This is just like the time we were riding our bicycles and that mad dog jumped after you.”

“I remember,” Sherlock says, “That was--that was fun.”

“You want to have some more fun?” John asks.

“What kind of fun?”

“You probably know a bar somewhere around here where our friends are unlikely to find us. We could have a drink. Talk some more.” John smiles, and Sherlock’s heart races again.

“Yeah, I can show you.”

 

“You’re so much better about this than Mary was. She’s the last person I ever drove with like this.” John says, “She was always squealing and yelling at me about speed limits. She could barely keep her skirt on properly let alone give me decent directions.”

“Next right.” Sherlock says as if on cue, “I should tell you. I don’t drink.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I do not drink. Ever.”

“You’ve never had a drink?” John looks slightly aghast.

“Never.”

“Well we can fix that.” John leads him inside by the hand and orders them shots.

“What exactly is the point of this?” Sherlock asks as he peers at the liquid.

“It’s supposed to be fun.” John thinks about it seriously, “Not actually a real point per say.”

“Doesn’t taste so good.” Sherlock contemplates, “I cannot understand why it’s so popular.”

“Acquired taste.You didn’t like smoking the first time did you?”

“I’m attempting to quit.”

“Good for you. I’m glad I never started. How’d you ever get into it?”

“Bored. Needed a fix. Helps me to think.”

“I was bored too.” John admits, “But I couldn’t. I can’t even drink too much. Not after Harry. In fact this is probably my last.”

“Committed to staying sober?”

“One of us has to. Besides. We’re eventually driving back. I’d rather not get us killed.”

“I could always drive.”

“Right, no, takes practice,” John laughs.

“I’m a genius.”

“All the more reason I want to get you back home in one piece. And oh god those pajamas.”

“Shut up, John.”

“All those years ago, you said you wanted to grow up and keep bees. I remember.”

“I will you know. When I’m retired from the cases and living all alone in Sussex.”

“Alone?” John looks a bit sad to hear that.

“Presumably.”

“You don’t have a girlfriend then?”

“Not my area.”

“Boyfriend? Which is fine by the way.”

“I know it’s fine.” Sherlock says a tad defensively, “But no. Not that either.”

“I see.”

“I honestly don’t see the big deal.”

“People like having someone who cares for them, Sherlock. Don’t you?”

“It’s not for people like me.” Sherlock explains.

“So you’ve never liked anyone?”

Sherlock breathes out slowly, then back in. He briefly closes his eyes and rubs them before answering, “I have.”

“Who? Do I know them?”

Sherlock gulps, the color draining from his face, “You do.”

“Girl? Boy?”

“Boy.” Sherlock answers slowly.

“What does he do?”

“He plays rugby.” Sherlock’s sweating just a bit now. What is he doing? Does he want John to find out and then pity him? To make fun of him like they all do? Has he lost his mind?

“So that’s the reason you come to all the games. I must know him really well then. Does he live near us?”

“Right next door.”

“That can’t be. No one--wait what is he on the team, you must know.”

Sherlock can’t look at him for shame, “He’s the captain.”

“Sherlock, I--” John starts to say.

Sherlock doesn’t even wait for him to finish, running out of the bar as fast as he can in the first direction he can think of. Right into Jack Kirby, who’s still sporting a bloody nose.

 

“Heard you went by my house, freakboy. Let John get his bike back.” Kirby says, pulling him into the alleyway and shoving him against the wall.

“While that did occur, as it is John’s bike, legally--”

“You talk way too much. Such a nice mouth though. You must suck really well. Do you? Do you suck John’s cock, freakboy?”

“Do you really want me to give you a black eye to go with that bloody nose, Jack?” John joins them at last.

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Funnily enough I’d love to see me try too. But I don’t think you’re going to love it. So I’ll say it again. Get away from him. Now.”

“Is that it then? You and him?” Kirby asks mockingly.

“It’s not like that.” Sherlock says.

“Oh, I get it. It’s not like that. But you like him. You do, don’t you? You’re so pathetic.”

At that point, Sherlock thinks, John’s patience has just about ended. Kirby’s position in holding Sherlock against the wall soon reverses itself as John pushes Kirby against the wall and Sherlock is allowed to stand aside and catch his breath. One punch in the eye is all it takes for Jack to run screaming and Sherlock doesn’t know where to be more awed or embarrassed but is also rather busy remembering how to breathe.

“I really hate that kid,” John says, turning to Sherlock.

“He’s always like that with me.” Sherlock shrugs, “They’re all the same. Idiots.”

“You never told me.”

“If you had defended me like that before they would have all thought you liked me.” Sherlock explains.

“I do like you, Sherlock. I’ve always liked you.”

“Not like that.” Sherlock can't meet his eyes.

“Sherlock would it be alright if I kissed you?” John asks.

Sherlock nods, and John’s warm fingers caress his face and pull it towards John’s. He doesn’t know how to kiss. He never has. John’s mouth is warm. Is it supposed to be warm? This feels wet. Is it supposed to? He’s biting on John’s mouth. Should he? When should tongue be involved? This angle feels nice. This doesn’t. This should be a study. But this is one data point. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. But John does. John knows exactly how to kiss and it feels new but it also feels good. Like nothing else in the world. He wants to laugh and cry all at once. He wants to touch John’s hair so he does. He wants to remember this moment forever. He and John both smell a bit like sweat. He can taste the alcohol on John’s breath. And John just saved him and asked him for a kiss, and he might just die from all this emotion if he didn’t desperately want to live.

 

“Did I--did I do it right?” Sherlock asks breathlessly when they break away.

“Wait--first time?”

“Obviously.”

“Quite good for a first time I’d say.” John runs his right hand through Sherlock’s curls, “Wouldn’t you?”

“Fantastic.” Sherlock borrows John’s word.

 

“Come on.” John says, “Let’s get back home before he brings back more of the goon squad.”

It feels different now, when Sherlock gets behind him and they head back through crisscrossing lanes and onto the freeway and then back to Sherlock’s house were this long and confusing night began. The window is still open. Careless. The pen is resting on the desk right where it was before he went to bed. The notebook has flipped open and the pages are still rustling when John climbs onto the roof and gives Sherlock a hand to come up after him.

 

“I’m really sorry,” John says, “For getting you involved in all this.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“You want to go to bed now? It’s been a lot. I can understand if you might want to get some rest. I could see you in the mo--”

“Don’t.” Sherlock frowns, “You’re nice. I know you are. And it was nice of you to kiss me. But I know you don’t. You don’t--”

“Let’s talk about this inside.” John gets in through the window and Sherlock follows.

John’s eyes flash to the notebook, now open precisely to the page of the essay, he follows John’s eyes as the read the first sentence.

 

“You believe that?” John asks, “There are some people who are not meant to be loved.”

“Plausible.”

“No. It’s really not.”

“I accept no conclusions without proof.”

“It’s almost morning now.” John begins, “And I can’t believe I spent the last few hours with you gallivanting--I don’t even honestly know where exactly we were. But talking to you. I just remembered everything. How close we used to be. And then we drifted apart because you were so much cleverer than me and I suppose you just thought I was stupid because I just played rugby and I wasn’t nearly as amazing as you are at all the academic things. I thought I lost you. But then your window was open and I came in and I saw you and this room and those bee pajamas. I lied you know. I knew you took up violin. I’ve snuck into your concerts. You’re amazing. At everything. It’s unfair. And it’s so stupidly cliche. But I demand that we play cricket right out on the street in front of your house because I thought that sometime you might come down and join us. But you never did. You never did."

“We used to be best friends. I--I always thought you moved on.”

“I wanted to be friends. I always wanted us to keep being friends.”

“And now?” Sherlock asks nervously.

“I’d like to kiss you again.”

 

The next morning the breeze came in again through the open window and flipped the notebook open to a different page. The handwriting here wasn’t long and curving, but rounded. The letters closer together.

 

_Sherlock--_

 

_Love may well be a construct but it is one intended to connect people like me and you, to describe the indescribable, like the madness characterizes everything we’ve ever done together. The chaos of last night. The adventures we’ve had and will have. Your impressive learning curve when it comes to kissing. The first times in everything still to come._

_I think you do have some sort of grander purpose than the rest of us. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have this. If there is some sort of master plan out there for you that somehow ends up in Sussex, I hope there’s room for me to be in it too._

_Lastly, there may be (I still don’t think so) some people out there that are not meant to be loved. I promise you, you are not one of them._

 

_J.W._

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was sort of kind of partially inspired by watching Paper Towns.


End file.
